


The World Turns

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Barad-dur, Battle, Elves, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Third Age, end of second age, wounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:30:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6693244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond is injured as he follows Isildur from the Cracks of Doom.  Will his weary soul have the strength to recover from this hurt?  Slightly AU although Tolkien doesn't say Elrond was NOT injured - he just doesn't say he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own most of the characters, most of the events or any of the world. I am only playing in the wide and wonderful landscape of JRR Tolkien and I bow down to his masterful work. This is non profit fan fiction.
> 
> (This story was partly inspired by a roleplay between myself and FrodoBagginsOfBagEnd.) Hurt/comfort? Yes. Angst? Yes. Plot? You may want to read elsewhere. Tolkien is ambiguous about the whereabouts of Galadriel and Celeborn at this time. They could be in Rivendell or they could be travelling. They were not Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood yet. So I have them visiting Lorien. It’s possible they did, resulting in their eventually rulership of that realm when Amroth departed.

“Isildur!”

For a moment he could only stare at Isildur’s retreating back, mind refusing to grasp what had just happened. But now the heat of the mountain began to make itself felt even to elven blood. Elrond turned to follow him toward the arch of dark sky, just visible amid the smoke and fumes.

Mind still whirling with the consequences of Isildur’s actions, Elrond did not see the huge orc waiting just beyond the exit. A sudden foreboding made Elrond rear back as the wicked blade sliced diagonally across his body, cleaving the armoured breastplate cleanly in two. There was a moment of stunned stillness before he fell into fiery agony, consciousness fleeing on a strangled cry.

The orc had no such sense to warn it of Glorfindel’s presence and it took the full brunt of the balrog slayer’s blow. It’s severed head bounced and rolled down the path. The rest of its bulk landed atop the crumpled Elrond for only a moment before Glorfindel heaved it aside. Stripping off his glove the warrior tucked fingers beneath his friend’s chin, relieved to find a racing pulse. An ominous tide of red pulsed out through the sharp edges of the rent in his armour and began to pool beneath Elrond’s still body.

Glorfindel rose swiftly to look out across the plains of Gorgoroth. The tents of the healers were only just visible through the smoke and fighting, far in the distance. He glanced down again. As a warrior he had some basic healing skills but this was beyond him with nought but bare hands. Elrond needed trained healers with all the necessary equipment to hand. The problem was getting him there before he ran out of blood. 

With a whispered prayer to Este, Glorfindel gathered up his friend and began to race down the treacherous cinder road that zigzagged down the mountainside. Only an elf could have been so sure footed on the treacherous surface or as swift to dodge the poorly aimed blows of still fighting orcs. 

By the time he reached the plains Elrond was beginning to moan in pain but Glorfindel did not slow, his passage followed by many shocked elven eyes. To lose Gil-galad and his herald in the same day was more than could be borne. A contingent soon formed about Glorfindel to provide safe passage through those remnants of Sauron’s army still fighting.

In his arms Elrond lay limp, head lolling over Glorfindel’s arm and his gored hair almost sweeping the ground. In their wake dripped a trail of blood and Glorfindel could feel Elrond’s precious life sliding down the front of his own armour.

Oooooooooo

“Carefully, my lord. Do not move him again if you can avoid it.”

Glorfindel grimaced. With two healers pressing firmly upon Elrond’s chest, their hands disappearing within the slashed armour, it was unlikely that even Glorfindel would be able to move his friend.

He dried his scarlet hands upon a towel and began to pick anxiously at the delicately wrought buckles at Elrond’s side and shoulder. Blood seemed to coat everything, making his fingers slip, and Glorfindel glanced up to reassure himself that Elrond did indeed still breath. How that could be when there seemed to be more blood outside his body than within, he did not question too deeply, grateful only for this small mercy.

Growling in frustration as the mithril buckle refused to yield, Glorfindel grabbed up one of the waiting scalpels and sliced through the gore-stiffened hide instead. Within moments the front of Elrond’s intricate plate armour was lifted away and all drew in a breath as the full extent of the damage could be seen clearly for the first time.

The scimitar had sliced the armour from shoulder to hip in a diagonal line. Elven armour was not intended to repel close attack, only to turn aside stray arrows. For an orc to come so close to an elven warrior of Elrond’s skill and experience was most unusual and Glorfindel could not imagine how it had happened. 

The gaping lips of the chain mail shirt told their tale, following the line of the rent in the plate armour precisely . . . as did the leather jerkin and fine silk shirt below. Blood, welled ominously more slowly now, flowing from the full length of the long slice. For a moment the two healers stared hard, then their hands flew to grab more dressings to pack the wound.

“Lord Glorfindel, we will need to remove the mail. Can you fetch others to help? We must move him swiftly but gently. He can ill afford to lose any more blood but we must get him undressed if we are to help him.”

The words were punctuated by a low moan and Elrond stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled for consciousness. 

One of the healers called out to Glorfindel’s already retreating back. “Wait, my lord. Quickly. He will be in much pain when he awakens. We must keep him still.”

Glorfindel was back at his friend’s side within a heartbeat, obeying the signal and moving to replace a healer’s hands on the crimson wad of dressings as the other sprinkled pungent liquid on a pad and pressed it gently over Elrond’s mouth and nose.

“Breathe deeply, Hir Elrond.”

Whether the words penetrated their charge’s consciousness was unclear. It looked as though Elrond would struggle at first, but with each inward breath he grew quieter, eyelids stilling as his head rolled helplessly to one side.

“He will sleep now. Go Lord Glorfindel. Fetch those helpers. Now!” 

Even with several helpers cutting free the chain mail it seemed an age before Elrond was stripped of chain and clothing and the healers could begin in earnest their work of stemming the ebb of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

The ellon spun at the strange sound, watching in fascination as pearls scattered upon the marble floor, bouncing and rolling this way and that in seeming slow motion. Nanneth stood, both hands at her throat in alarm, eyes shining with tears. Nanneth cried too often nowadays and the pearls had been a present from Ada.

“I’ll get them.” And he was on his knees at once, chasing the pale glowing spheres one by one across the dark marble. 

His finely shaped finger and thumb pinched a tiny pearl and he almost dropped it in alarm. Pain lanced through his chest and he gasped, but he did not let go. No pearl must be lost or the symmetry of the necklace would be broken. He dropped it in his pocket swiftly.

Another pearl. A clear, strong featured face framed in a fall of fine golden hair. A feeling of safety washed through him, carrying him through the pounding pain of the next jewel.

With each glowing sphere Elrond was assailed by images and emotions his young and innocent heart could not comprehend. 

A glorious, dark haired warrior wielding a silver lance . . . vile faced creatures with glowing yellow eyes . . . the metallic smell of blood . . . a towering figure wreathed in a cloud of fear . . . the taste of ashes in his mouth . . . a carpet of jumbled limbs and blood. 

Another pearl. A slender elf maiden with long silver hair, bringing with her a feeling of light and comfort. The last pearl . . . and a dark and blunt featured face, limned in the ruddy glow of fire and filled with greedy disdain. A name . . . 

“Isildur!”

“Elrond . . . No! Be still!” He struggled to run after the retreating figure but hands held him in a grip of iron. “Elrond . . . Mellon nin . . . peace . . . please . . . lie still.”

The voice stilled him where hands could not and Elrond cracked open leaden eyelids to find a vague and insubstantial world in which shadows drifted across his vision and voices murmured words he could not force his mind to comprehend. Then a golden light bent closer, coalescing into the strong-featured face of his childhood vision. When it became clear that Elrond’s eyes had focussed upon him, the lips in that face quirked into a small smile.

“About time, too. I thought you were going to sleep out the next age.”

“Fin?” Elrond was surprised by the rough, choking edge to his own voice and tried to cough. An action that he immediately regretted as pain flared from hip to shoulder and he tried in vain to curl onto his side, aware of more hands than Glorfindel’s preventing him.

“You must lie still, Lord Elrond.” This was another voice, carrying the soft lilt of Lorien. “You will tear the stitches.”

The words were easily spoken but less easily obeyed and it took several minutes for Elrond to still the rocking of his body as it tried to run from the agony firing along hundreds of nerve endings. Slowly, very slowly, the pain slid down from agony to just bearable and he opened eyes he had not realised until now were clenched tightly shut.

A strange elf in blood-smeared healer’s garb slid a hand beneath Elrond’s head and touched a cup to his lips. Elrond accepted it gratefully, tasting several herbs used to ease pain and fight fever in the cool liquid that trickled steadily into his mouth. He drank all and the healer followed it with a cup of water.

“That is much better, my lord. The tea will ease you and you must take as much fluid as you can. You have lost a great deal of blood, in fact were it not for Lord Glorfindel’s swift action you and I would not be having this conversation.” 

Some distant part of Elrond’s mind wondered what this elf considered to be a conversation. Elrond’s own part in it so far had consisted largely of moans. Before his head was returned to the pillow Elrond glanced down at his body, blinking as his eyes encountered a swathe of bandages that ran over his left shoulder, around and down the entire length of his torso to disappear beneath the blanket at his waist. In several places the pale linen was spotted with the scarlet of fresh blood.

He swallowed. It was one thing to treat such injuries on someone else’s body but quite another to see them on your own. The healer obviously noticed the greening of his charge’s complexion and he and his assistant rolled Elrond expertly on to his side, sliding a basin beneath his chin as the ailing elf brought back the medication he had just taken.

For some time Elrond was aware only of the rippling agony of his body as it protested the actions of his stomach and, distantly, a hand rubbing across his shoulders.

Glorfindel looked up at the sound of water being poured and stirred, his hand still rubbing Elrond’s trembling back. “Is it safe to give him more medicine?”

The healer nodded, rolling Elrond onto his back in one swift movement and sliding a hand beneath his head. “He did not have time to ingest any of the last dose.” He touched the cup to Elrond’s lips, encountering some reluctance from his charge. It seemed Elrond was in no mood to repeat that performance any time soon.

“Come, my lord. This will ease your pain and help you sleep,” he coaxed and Elrond complied at last, allowing him to trickle the herbal mixture between his lips.

Once his friend was dozing Glorfindel settled himself upon a campstool at his side, capturing one lax hand between both of his, as he tried to will life into the ensanguined flesh. 

“Stay with us, Elrond. You are sorely needed and would be even more sorely missed.”


	3. Chapter 3

The mountain exploded, sending rivulets of molten stone down the shattered remains of its flanks. Elrond tried to run, but the searing river swept him away, rolling and tossing him in an agony of flame. He could not fight his way free, although he struggled, and it refused to kill him; binding him in flame that he could only endure helplessly.

Then, above the sizzle and crack of his own crisping flesh he heard something else, a soft and distant melody of sweet voices that stole into his fea, spreading a cooling balm in its wake. Elrond grabbed at the sound, clutching it in clawed fingers and dragging it closer. With each ragged breath he took the song grew nearer. The flames hissed defeat, as fire is quenched by waves upon a shore, the steam of its passing dissipated by a fresh, clean breeze. Soon he lay, rocked gently on a sea of tranquillity. The song faded, taking with it all else but peace.

When the pain returned it was only the soreness of wounds. It brought with it a different kind of song, a lilting murmured duet.

“ . . . waking.”

“Will he be in pain?”

“Aye. Some. But he, at least, we have saved.”

Elrond swallowed carefully before attempting to speak. “Gil?”

There was a moment’s silence and then, “No. It is Glorfindel,” came the soft reply and Elrond felt someone squeeze his hand. Something cool and damp blotted gently at his eyes and Elrond blinked them open in time to see a cloth withdrawn. Glorfindel’s face appeared above him, concern melting into a smile. “Would you like a drink?”

Not trusting his voice to reply Elrond nodded; the tinniest tilt of his chin. Glorfindel saw it and slid a hand behind his friend’s head as he touched a cup to parched and cracked lips. The cool water slid down Elrond’s throat, invoking memory of the waterfalls of Imladris on a summer day. When the cup had been drained Elrond finally urged his mouth to speak.

“How long?”

“You have lain unconscious for five days.” 

Elrond could see his friend watching his face closely for any signs of distress and he tried to put him at ease. “A fever?”

“Aye. Brought on by poison and infection,” answered a different voice.

Elrond rolled his head to the side to find a new face. No . . . not new. This was the healer of his previous waking, although dressed cleanly now and looking less harassed. At Elrond’s unspoken query, the healer introduced himself. 

“I am Glinkuil * and it is my honour to attend the bearer of the High King’s standard.”

Mustering what strength he could, Elrond slid his hand over his heart. “There is no more High King.” For a moment Elrond’s eyes clouded in painful memory then he blinked and they were clear once more. “You have my thanks, Glinkuil. I suspect that without your care I would now be pacing the Halls of Mandos.” He swallowed, the length of such a speech exhausting him.

Glinkuil merely began adding drops from various bottles and vials into a small, heavily engraved silver cup, mixing them with some white wine. “Many prayed for your healing. I only gave my hands and mind to the task.”

“Many indeed. Even Isildur has been asking after you several times a day,” added Glorfindel.

His words landed heavily upon Elrond’s fea. “He is still here, then?”

Glorfindel obviously sensed his friend’s disapproval although not the reason for it. “Yes, although he says he waits only for word of you before he must return to Minas Tirith. He seems eager to depart and one can hardly blame him. We all wish to leave this tainted place.”

“Word of my living or of my dying I wonder.” Elrond grasped Glorfindel’s hand more tightly. “It has taken him, Fin. The Ring should have been destroyed but it continues and with it our foe.” Elrond closed his eyes as weakness overcame him and Glinkuil’s soft voice slipped into the shocked silence.

“Enough, Lord Elrond. You must not overtax yourself. Others can deal with such matters. You have not the strength to do so at present.”

Before Elrond could protest the silver cup was at his lips and the bitter-laced wine filled his mouth, forcing him into silence by the need to swallow. When Glorfindel would have rushed from the tent to confront Isildur Elrond’s fingers convulsed about his with surprising strength, staying him. 

Once the cup was emptied Elrond turned back to his friend. “Fin, it is no longer our task to see the end of this. The world dances to a swifter drum of mortal tune now. Soon will come the Age of Man and our people must fade.”

Glorfindel settled upon the stool at Elrond’s bedside once more. “Surely not? The existence of the Ring is due partly to our greed after all. We must hold some part in its destruction.” His face hardened. “It would be the task of minutes for me to end this, now. I have faced a Balrog. This as yet uncrowned mortal kinglette would be easy enough to overcome.”

Elrond mustered a smile at his friend’s impetuosity. “Have you forgotten” he asked a little breathlessly, “that the Balrog won that battle?”

His question was answered with a snort. “It was at the least a draw. The Balrog died too.”

“Nevertheless, the task of ridding this land of Sauron’s pall no longer falls to elven kind.” Elrond found his eyes growing heavy and struggled to push the insidious workings of Glinkuil’s herbs aside for a few more precious minutes. He must be sure Glorfindel did not take matters into his hands.

“Fin. You must feel it. Our time is passing. More and more look to the West for peace. When we are gone men will rule here. There will be no more elven high kings.” His voice grew quieter with each word, as the drugs in his system clamoured for dominance.

Glorfindel sighed in resignation. “We cannot just leave them to their fate. They are not ready to face such a foe alone.”

Elrond’s thumb rubbed unconsciously at the base of his finger. “Not completely alone. Some must stay to help.” His eyes drifted shut for a moment but with the last of his strength he forced them open. Glorfindel had to lean close to hear his words. “Promise me, Fin. Promise to let this rest for now.”

For a moment he thought Glorfindel would not give his word, but finally those piercing blue eyes met his. “You have my promise. But do not expect me to leave you to face this alone. If there is any part to be played by elves in Sauron’s ultimate destruction I shall be there to fill it.”

Elrond’s fingers relaxed their grip and his eyelids fluttered shut. On the outward flow of a sigh he whispered, “Thank you, Fin.”


	4. Chapter 4

The train bearing the wounded rumbled its way slowly through the wastelands beyond Sauron’s gates and into the fresher air of Ithilien. The Tower of the Moon had not escaped the war unscathed so the wagons, with their precious cargo gave the citadel a wide birth and finally halted upon the banks of the river Anduin. The citizens had worries enough of their own without a huge influx of wounded adding to their burden.

Those most grievously injured had been drugged insensible for the greater part of the long journey, to spare them the jolting agony of roads torn up by the passage of too many ironclad feet and engines of war. Now the healers were allowing them a time of wakefulness before the river crossing. 

In a grove of beech trees a small pavilion nestled slightly apart from the other tents. If Elrond had been aware at the time he would doubtless have objected to such favour. But Glorfindel and others had shown their love in the only way they could by erecting it in this quiet and scented place. Glorfindel had been to great pains to assure the healer that Elrond’s people would fetch him if their lord exhibited any symptoms of distress before the Glinkuil’s scheduled arrival, and only because of that had the placement of the pavilion been agreed. 

Knowing to within a few minutes when his charge would awaken, Glinkuil had arrived a little while ago and ordered broth and drinks to be brought. Now Glorfindel watched as he drew back the blanket to inspect the bandages that still thickly swathed Elrond’s body, nodding in approval as he found little in the way of fresh bleeding. One of pure elven blood would be further along on the road to healing but Glorfindel consoled himself with the thought that had Elrond been wholly mortal such an injury would have certainly brought about his demise.

A sigh presaged Elrond’s return to consciousness and all eyes within the tent turned towards the still figure upon the raised pallet. Glorfindel took up his accustomed place at his friend’s side at once, so that Elrond would find a familiar face when he surfaced from his enforced slumber. At his other side Glinkuil stood ready with a tincture to soothe the pain he knew would be Elrond’s first awareness.

Clouded grey eyes opened, blinking into focus on the canvas above and then sliding down to take in the space around him. Glinkuil bent at once, slipping a hand beneath Elrond’s shoulders and offering the small silver cup with its tincture mixed in white wine. His charge swallowed trustingly, finishing all before turning to his friend.

“How long have I slept? I seem to recall many such dosings.”

“It has been six days. The healers deemed you would be more comfortable for the journey thus,” Glorfindel replied as he eased his friend up once more to allow Glinkuil to slide another pillow beneath his shoulders.

Elrond winched then surveyed his surroundings once more, apparently noticing for the first time that he was not in a communal healing tent. “Journey? Where are we?”

“We are in Ithilien, on the banks of Anduin. The first of the injured will be ferried across tomorrow,” Glinkuil supplied as he accepted a tray from his assistant. “For now, you must rest and take nourishment. We could feed you little while you slept.”

Drawing up another stool, Glinkuil selected a small basin of broth from the tray and proceeded to spoon it into his charge. Glorfindel could feel Elrond’s discomfort. It was one thing to be given medicines in that manner but quite another to be fed like a babe in arms.

Clearly trying to distract himself, Elrond spoke between mouthfuls. “What of Isildur?”

“He and his guard left as soon as you were declared well enough to travel. Actually, “left” is too fine a word for what he did. He skulked off into the night with only his personal guard, leaving the rest of his army to follow when they could. Not the best example for a king to set.” 

Glorfindel’s tone matched his scornful words perfectly and Elrond almost smiled. Then his thoughts clearly turned to another king and a shimmer of tears gathered in his eyes. 

“And Gil-galad? Where does he lie?”

Glorfindel could only shake his head. “His guards spirited the body away. They would not say where they laid him.”

Elrond accepted several mouthfuls of broth before he spoke again, his gaze distant. “That is as he wished it. He wanted no mourners or monument. His eyes ever looked to the future.” A small smile. “He would often chide me for burying my head in histories and legends of the past.”

There was the usual embarrassed silence as all present tried to find the right words to comfort. “I am sorry, Elrond. I know his death was a great loss to you.” Glorfindel’s thumb rubbed the back of his friend’s hand.

“I shall miss him.” Elrond refused the next spoonful of broth with a shake of his head. “I have had sufficient, Glinkuil.”

“No, Hir Elrond. You may have had as much as you want but you have not had sufficient if you wish to heal.” Glinkuil offered the spoon again but found himself upon the receiving end of one of the Standard Bearer’s infamous glares. Even backed with no physical substance Glinkuil found it intimidating and drew back, searching for but finding no support in Glorfindel’s face.

“Master Glinkuil, I promise I shall take further sustenance later. Let me have a moment alone. I have no intention of expiring within the next hour.”

It looked as though Glinkuil was preparing to argue but then he simply bowed and left. Glorfindel smiled to see his friend regaining some of his strength of will at least but when he glanced back at Elrond he found those piercing grey eyes trained squarely upon him now.

“You too, Fin. You need not hover any more. I am recovering and I suspect you have not left this tent for some hours.”

Glorfindel hesitated and then followed Glinkuil. Elrond deserved some time alone to mourn his dearest friend and he had never been one for public displays of emotion. The guards stationed outside would hear and send for aid if their lord evinced any signs of physical distress.

When the two returned, a little while later, they pretended not to notice the dried tracks of tears on Elrond’s cheeks.


	5. Chapter 5

His first awareness was of people shouting and for a moment Elrond thought he was back on the battlefield. Then the words began to make sense, especially when accompanied by a faint rocking and bumping sensation.

“Make fast the bowline. Bring up the gangplank. Ready the injured.”

A quiet voice spoke closer to his ear. “Lord Elrond is awakening, Glinkuil.” It was followed by a now familiar one.

“Stubborn warrior. He should not be rousing for several hours but he fights for control.”

A cool and feather-light hand settled upon Elrond’s brow and he fought to bring words from lips that were too lax to form them. “‘Tis my body.”

His reward was a light chuckle. “Aye, it is indeed. But your body needs rest if it is to remain your body. Now, go back to sleep.”

The words were accompanied by a light mental nudge that Elrond would usually be able to turn aside with little effort, but he found the world sliding away from him as he sank back beneath the waves of Glinkuil’s drugs and healer’s will.

00000000

“ He is waking again.”

“No matter. We have the pavilion ready and Glinkuil is waiting,” came Glorfindel’s calm reply. Then the voice was closer, words whispered in his ear. “Elrond Earenduillion, I sometimes wonder why I bothered trying to save your life. You are just stubborn enough to have managed the task on your own.”

Elrond wanted to make a retort but he was suddenly jostled and pain flared, making him gasp instead.

“Gently there!” Glorfindel called and the movement evened out once more, almost like the rocking of a cradle. It was enough to tip him back into sleep.

“In here . . . “

00000000

 

Elrond leaned into Glorfindel’s support gratefully as Glinkuil unwound the swathes of soft bandages and gently peeled away the dressings over the long wound. Elrond suspected the other healer was long practised in his art, for none but another of his craft would have noticed the slight frown that flitted across Glinkuil’s face as he bent a little closer to examine the long cut where it glanced across the base of Elrond’s sternum.

Drawing a deeper breath, Elrond glanced down to see the reason for Glinkuil’s concern. The breath told him much, before his eyes confirmed it, for there was a sharp pull against the stitches there and a sensitive elven nose easily detected the sweet, sickly smell of infection.

Aware that there was little point in trying to hide matters from his charge, Glinkuil pressed gentle fingers to the reddened area, tutting when a bubble of thin yellow pus slid from between his so carefully placed stitches. 

“It is as I feared. The infection has returned. We should have let you rest for longer before bringing you across the river. I judged matters badly.”

Elrond shook his head, feeling as though he were doing so in a barrel of molasses. “You made the best decision with the information you had. Do not blame yourself.”

Glinkuil nodded. “Still, I wish I had chosen otherwise. But now we must deal with the consequences. The stitches will have to be released and the wound cleansed to prevent any further spread.” He laid a fresh dressing over the length of the wound but did not bandage it in place, helping Glorfindel to settle their charge back into his pillows.

Strangely detached, Elrond watched the healer mix tinctures for pain relief and sedation in the now familiar small silver cup. It took no persuasion for Elrond to accept the medicine. Both healer and charge knew that it would be best if Elrond slept through this particular procedure.

Glorfindel took up his customary station at Elrond’s side but his friend made to wave him away. “Get some fresh air, Fin. This will not be pleasant.”

His reply was a firm shake of the golden head. “I am not leaving. Anyway, Glinkuil may need an extra pair of hands.”

“If your hands are coming anywhere near my needlework I want them clean, Lord Glorfindel.” Glinkuil nodded over his shoulder to where an apprentice had just set a basin of warm water, with towels and soap.

With a flick of his brow at Elrond and a wry grin, Glorfindel moved to obey. “Yes, indeed, My Lord of the Pavilion.”

Elrond watched as the apprentice tried unsuccessfully to swallow a laugh and Glinkuil bent lower over his work of unwrapping and laying out his surgical kit. 

For several minutes more there were only the sounds of preparation within the tent. The clink of metal and glass sang counterpoint to the slosh of water and the smell of herbs, lulling Elrond with their familiarity. He could feel Glinkuil’s tinctures wrapping themselves gently but firmly about his body and mind, guiding him slowly into a deep sleep that held no room for grief or pain.

The world dissolved into a grey mist that enfolded him in cool softness and he laid his head in the lap of a silver-haired maiden with eyes the colour of a spring sky.


	6. Chapter 6

Once he was sure his charge was deeply unconscious, Glinkuil began his work. 

The apprentice draped fresh linen across Elrond’s chest, leaving the infected area of the wound clear and then removed the temporary dressing. The pad was already stained yellow and he dropped it into a large bowl.

“Lord Glorfindel. If you please, I would like you to aid me while my assistant monitors Elrond’s condition.”

Glorfindel took up the indicated position, opposite the healer and the younger elf placed himself at Elrond’s head, fingers resting lightly beneath their charge’s chin to monitor the life flow there.

Glinkuil’s murmured, “Are we all ready?” received a soft assent from his assistant and a tight nod from Glorfindel. He took up the scalpel and neatly slit the delicate stitches. At once, the smell grew stronger and the two sides of the wound spread stickily open. There was obviously no healing in this area. 

Glorfindel swallowed back his rising bile at the stench and watched as Glinkuil cut more stitches, until he began to encounter the firm pink of more healthy flesh. 

“Sop the wound, Glorfindel. We must remove the pus to determine what damage lies beneath.”

As Glinkuil turned to wash his hands again and select a fresh scalpel, Glorfindel used some of the many small squares of waiting linen to soak up the putrid mess, dropping them distastefully into the waiting basin when they were finished. The sickly stench pervaded the entire pavilion now and even the guards outside began to shift uneasily.

Glinkuil waited impassively until the wound was clear, bending closer to examine it when Glorfindel laid aside the last cloth. 

“See here? The areas of blackness are where the flesh has died. I must excise these areas and then wash the entire area clean.”

For a few minutes Glorfindel forgot his nausea as he watched in fascination. Glinkuil wielded his knife with extreme precision, removing the damaged areas and the tiniest of margins to ensure he missed nothing. As he removed each section he nodded approval as fresh clean blood welled and Glorfindel had to keep swabbing the area to enable him to see the next. Gradually, the red soaked cloths covered the yellow green tinged ones and Glorfindel took that as a good sign.

When he could see no more discoloured flesh, Glinkuil sluiced the wound with fresh water and packed it with ground Athelas. Then he took up needle and thread.

“I shall suture this area only loosely to enable me to check it for a while and allow further drainage if it is necessary.”

Now that he could relax once more, Glorfindel’s body began to make felt its revulsion at the proceedings just witnessed. He swallowed several times as he watched the large, curved needle stab the edges of the wound, and before he could even voice apologies he ran from the tent.

Sometime later Glorfindel sat back, accepting sheepishly the damp cloth Glinkuil’s apprentice held out to him. He glanced up as he wiped his face, finding only sympathy in the young elf’s features.

“The first time I attended such a surgical procedure I was sick too. You at least waited until it was over. I had to be carried from the room.” 

Accepting the youngster’s help to rise, Glorfindel straightened his clothing, wiping at a stray speck. “I think I would rather face an orc and they smell vile enough. You have my admiration for dealing with this every day. What is your name?”

The apprentice ducked his head in embarrassment at praise from the legendary balrog slayer. “Eithel,* my lord. And one grows used to it with time.”

“Thank you, Eithel. Now, we had better go back and see what we can do to help your master and mine.” With a squeeze of Eithel’s shoulder, Glorfindel lead the way back to the pavilion.

Glinkuil had opened flaps at the front and back of the tent to allow fresh air through when the two returned and Glorfindel felt the healer’s eyes upon him as soon as he entered. “Wash your hands thoroughly.” 

Glorfindel rolled his eyes but did as he was instructed, turning to find the silver cup held out to him this time. 

“Mint tea. It will settle your stomach.”

Glorfindel waved it away. “A momentary lapse. I am well enough.”

The cup maintained its position in front of him. “Then drink it because it tastes good and will cover the smell.”

Accepting it, Glorfindel inhaled the steam deeply as Eithel exited with the covered bowl of soiled dressings, tossing them onto the fire outside. He sipped the fresh tasting tea and could not stop a small sigh of relief as it worked to unknot his stomach muscles at once.

Elrond lay still beneath his clean sheet, as he had done throughout the entire procedure, and Glorfindel had to reassure himself that he still breathed, watching as the sheet rose and fell slightly with each light breath. His friend seemed almost peaceful, were it not for the sheen of perspiration that now slicked his shoulders and face.

Glinkuil reached to brush a stray strand of dark hair from Elrond’s brow before laying a cool damp cloth upon it. He answered Glorfindel’s unspoken query. 

“I think we caught the infection in time. It was limited to a small area. There will be a fever, however, until his body fights off the sickness that has already entered his blood. We should wait here until it breaks and send on the remainder of the injured to the Tower of the Sun. I understand that they have very skilled healers there.”

Glorfindel continued to sip his tea, loathe to take his eyes from his friend. “The men will be taken there, but our people will be making for Lorien. We will not stay in the city.”

“I would be only too pleased to see my home but Minas Tirith is closer . . .” Glinkuil was cut off. 

“Our people will not stay in the city. We make for the peace and sanctuary of our own kind in Lorien.” 

The firmness of Glorfindel’s tone silenced all Glinkuil’s further protests and he turned back to cleansing and repacking his surgical kit.


	7. Chapter 7

They cowered beneath the table in Nanneth’s room and he peeped from beneath the delicately embroidered cover, feeling his brother’s hands clutch at his shirt. Both children trembled, the vision of their mother throwing herself from the window still vivid in their minds. Suddenly there was the splintered crash of a door and footsteps approaching the casement, followed by a loud curse. 

A voice that would have been beautiful, had it spoken in any other tone, bellowed with rage. “She took it with her. I knew it. Damn her!”

His brother sobbed and he turned to slap a hand over trembling lips in warning. But it was too late. The cloth that had hidden them thus far was yanked aside and a snarling and blood spattered face glared at them.

They shrank back in terror.

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He held his trembling brother close, piling crisp leaves about them to try and create some warmth in the cold autumn woodland. The world wavered in and out and he could no longer deny that his choice of the last mushrooms they had eaten was faulty. He had suspected it at the time but they had both been so hungry that he needed to take the risk. Now they would no doubt pay for his carelessness. Perhaps they would even die.

He watched a tear land upon his wrist, fascinated by the scintillating rainbow of colour caught in such a simple thing. A distant portion of his consciousness realised that to be thus absorbed by such an everyday thing was not normal and his stomach fluttered and lurched in what he actually hoped presaged the expelling of his last meal.

Then sounds other than his brother’s frightened whimpers impinged upon his ears. There were many horses approaching and voices calling. 

They had been found and they had not the strength to flee again.

00000

He stood with the son of his comrade in arms, upon the brink of a glowing chasm. “Cast it into the fire!”

Turning, his heart stopped as he watched Isildur’s expression change. The grieving and frightened face of the young prince was suddenly shuttered against him and the warm glow of the circle of gold between his fingers lit his face from below, turning Elrond’s blood to ice as it illumined feverishly covetous eyes. 

As Isildur turned away, those eyes still fixed upon that which he held, Elrond was speechless. This could not be happening again. So many sought power and it destroyed all who did so, elves, men and dwarves alike.

A rush of heat behind him reminded Elrond where he stood and he moved to follow, making one last appeal.

“Isildur!”

The world seemed to lurch and, stepping through the archway, he watched in horror as a firedrake circled a lone mountain peak, its breath scorching the already seared rock face. It seemed to spy him and turned slowly, its ancient bulk no longer able to manoeuvre with grace. 

But before it could reach him it metamorphosed into a Balrog, the beat of wings becoming the crack of a whip. Elrond’s body was suddenly old, a sword and simple wooden staff his defence. The vile creature roared, sulphurous breath engulfing him in shimmering heat.

He screamed, struggling to escape. But a hundred slithering cold hands grasped at him, pulling him back and he was staring up at a tall cliff face with the yawning darkness of an open doorway. The cool darkness should have been inviting but he did not want to enter, neither did he want to remain in the grip of the vile creature that was pulling him down.

His body touched icy water and he cried out. Surely someone would help him. But the hands were pushing now until he was up to his neck in the chill liquid. Voices were shouting but he could not make sense of their words.

“I’m coming, sir.”

“Aim for the eyes.”

“Sam!”

“Hold him still.”

“He’s thrashing like a landed fish.”

“We must keep him in the bath a little longer.”

“I am trying!”

“No. Let me go. I will not go. No.” Elrond found his own voice at last, fighting with all his waning strength against his foes.

“Elrond, my friend. We are taking you nowhere except back to your bed when you have settled down.”

The voice gave Elrond pause. It was a voice he knew well, not one of the others. 

“Keep talking, Lord Glorfindel. He seems to be responding to you at last.”

“Elrond. You must relax. It feels cold, I know but that is only because you have a fever. Please. Lie still. You are safe among friends.”

As Elrond fell under the soothing spell of that familiar voice it grew gentler. “Saes, mellon nin. Saes.”

As his panic died Elrond became aware that only two sets of hands held him, and gently at that. They did not grasp or push, but supported him. He blinked open his eyes, surprised to find filtered daylight and pale canvas instead of sickly moonlight and dark cliffs. 

Two concerned faces looked down at him. “Fin? Glinkuil?”

Glorfindel’s face lit up like a summer’s day. “Thanks be. He is in his right mind again.”

Early spring to Glorfindel’s high summer, Glinkuil nonetheless looked pleased. “I hoped that the cool bath would help.”

“If the shock didn’t kill him,” Glorfindel retorted more than half seriously.

“I will allow you to ply your craft without comment if you will allow me to ply mine, master warrior.”

A little annoyed at being ignored, Elrond interjected huskily. “Hello?”

At once both sets of eyes returned to his. “How are you feeling, Lord Elrond?” Glinkuil asked as Glorfindel picked a long strand of damp hair from Elrond’s cheek and tucked it behind his ear.

Elrond had to think before answering. “Tired. Have I been sick?”

“You have a fever. Are you in any pain?”

Once again, Elrond had to consider. His body seemed a thing detached from his mind and he had to concentrate to identify the sensations his flesh was signalling to him.

“Everything aches. Chest hurts.”

With a supreme effort he tilted his head forward, a little surprised when he could not stop the forward motion and ended up with his chin resting on his chest. Still, this did afford him a look at his body. 

He was naked in clear water that came almost up to his shoulders. Beneath the wavering surface of the liquid he could see that his torso was bound from hip to shoulder with bandages. Fascinating as the image was, he was glad when Glorfindel slid a hand beneath his chin and tilted Elrond’s head back to rest against his strong sword arm.

His sluggish mind dredged up a thought. “Bandages will be wet.”

“I will change them after we take you out of the bath.” With that assurance Glinkuil leaned forward to lay his palm against Elrond’s brow then slid his fingers down to rest beneath his chin, testing the life flow there. “Speaking of which, I think we should lift you out now.”

With those words, he and Glorfindel shifted their grip and lifted Elrond slowly between them, laying him down upon a bed thickly padded with towels. More towels were brought and Glorfindel and Glinkuil gently blotted Elrond dry while an apprentice brought a brazier closer to the bed. Despite knowing that he was recently over heated he now felt a little chilled and the brazier’s heat was welcome.

Glinkuil left Glorfindel to spread a couple of warmed blankets over his friend and Elrond managed to husk out his thanks. 

“It is my pleasure. Now drink this.” Glorfindel slid a supporting hand beneath Elrond’s head and touched the rim of a warm cup to his cracked lips. Elrond recognised ginger and chamomile tea, thickly laced with honey, and sipped it eagerly.

Only when the cup had been drained did Glinkuil begin to cut away the damp linen bandages and dressings, instructing Glorfindel to support Elrond as he wound fresh dry linen in place. By the time they were finished Elrond was quite drowsy and made no protest when they lifted him to let the apprentice strip away the last of the towels.

Soon he was tucked between soft linen sheets and blankets that had been warming before the fire, his head cradled in plump pillows and he could resist the tug of sleep no longer. His last sight was of Glorfindel settling upon a stool at his bedside.


	8. Chapter 8

“I have been managing to feed myself for several thousand years. Put that spoon down.” Elrond’s voice lacked volume and the effect was somewhat dulled by the slight cough at its ending but his tone conveyed the point clearly enough. 

Glorfindel dropped the spoon back into the bowl of broth and folded his arms with an exasperated sigh. “You have not almost bled to death and then suffered with fever for six days before though, have you? But by all means, go ahead.”

With a scowl that could have scared away a dragon but had limited effect upon a Balrog slayer, Elrond reached for the eating implement. His scowl deepened as he found his hand trembling, his fingers lacking the strength to even grip the stem. Glorfindel watched calmly as he dropped it back into the basin three times, finally drowning it, stem and all. The spoon lay submerged in the warm liquid, eyeing Elrond smugly from its murky bath. 

Glorfindel dropped his head to hide a smirk as Elrond muttered, “Don’t like mushroom broth, anyway.”

Now that Elrond’s fever had broken he had become more and more frustrated as his body refused to heal at the speed he wished. This afternoon’s battle was but one in a long line of skirmishes he had held with both Glorfindel and Glinkuil over the last three days. They had covered such important matters as, who was going to wash his face and brush his hair, or whether he was capable of getting up to deal with his own bodily functions. So far Elrond had lost every argument but that didn’t stop him trying and Glorfindel had to admire him for his sheer stubbornness. Glorfindel began to worry that the need for physical recovery was born of a need to run from emotion rather than a run towards health.

Elrond leaned back into the mound of pillows behind him and stared at the roof of the tent, his hands falling still at his sides. Glorfindel made no comment, neatly fishing the spoon out with a fork. Taking up a fresh one he filled it and held it to his friend’s mouth. Elrond opened without comment, accepting both broth and defeat.

“Glinkuil tells me you are well enough to travel if we take the journey slowly.” Glorfindel made small talk as he tried to distract the Lord of Imladris from the humiliation of once more being fed like a child.

“Aye. And at least I will be spared riding in a wagon. The passage is too rough.”

The slight uplift in Elrond’s tone alerted his friend. “I am afraid you should not get your hopes up. Glinkuil is out there supervising the assembly of a litter for you. You cannot sit a horse in your present condition.”

As he had suspected it would, this initiated another glower. “I will not be carted about the countryside like . . . like some suckling pig on a platter. You can tell Master Glinkuil I will not be requiring his contraption.”

“I will do no such thing. Be sensible, Elrond. You are a healer. You are stitched together down the entire length of your body and you are still recovering from infection and fever. Apart from the danger of tearing Glinkuil’s carefully wrought stitches, for which he may just decide to let you bleed to death, you are too weak to hold yourself upright. You have not sat up without the aid of pillows for two weeks.”

Elrond’s voice rose querulously. “And whose fault is that? I have tried to leave this bed upon several occasions and you have wrestled me down each time.”

Glorfindel lifted the tray aside, realising that in his present mood it would be impossible to get Elrond to take any more nourishment. “And do you honestly believe that I would have been able to do so were you ready to get up? It was hardly a fair match.”

If Glorfindel had been the sort of person who kept a diary he decided that he would have put a ring around this date, for Elrond was unable to come up with a suitable retort. Deciding to stop while he had the upper hand, Glorfindel gathered up the tray and left his charge to stew in his own bile.

Outside, Glinkuil looked up from his supervision long enough to offer him a sympathetic glance. The journey to Lorien was going to be very long.

0000000000

“I can walk that far. It is only a few steps. At least allow me that dignity.” There was a note of pleading in Elrond’s voice that Glorfindel did not remember ever having heard before and it tugged at his heart, overriding other considerations. It was, after all, only half a dozen steps to the exit and the litter lay just beyond. 

Glinkuil was more used to such tactics, however, and was not so easily swayed. “Lord Elrond. You are too weak as yet. You have not sat up for more than an hour at a time these past two days.” He continued to ease his charge into a loose linen robe for the journey. As a consequence, Elrond’s next words were somewhat muffled as Glinkuil dropped the large skein of fabric over his head.

“I am healing much faster now that the fever has subsided. You can walk with me if you are so concerned.” His somewhat tousled head appeared through the neckline and Glinkuil went on to thread his arms into the sleeves and wrangle the fabric down his torso over the thick layer of bandages.

Glorfindel came to his rescue. “We can walk either side of him, Glinkuil. He is right. It is but a few steps.” He eased Elrond up a little to allow the healer to slide the fabric over narrow hips and smooth the robe down over their charge’s legs.

The healer threw up his hands. “Very well. But I doubt you’ll get more than one step.” He glared at Glorfindel. “I shall hold you responsible for ensuring he does himself no further damage when he faints.”

“I never faint.” Elrond’s voice held nothing like its old strength, making Glinkuil snort and Glorfindel begin to reconsider his decision. But Glinkuil took the lead. 

He motioned for Glorfindel to support Elrond in a sitting position and watched as the injured elf closed his eyes as soon as he was upright, clinging to his friend’s arm. Glinkuil shot his temporary assistant a warning glance before moving to slip his hands beneath Elrond’s legs and the two of them turned him slowly sideways until his bare feet were on the floor. There they waited for Elrond to open his eyes, Glorfindel wincing at the pressure his friends hands were inflicting upon his biceps

Finally, Elrond took a deep breath, grimacing as it tugged at healing flesh, and opened his eyes. Glinkuil watched closely, only signalling for Glorfindel to help him rise when he saw those grey eyes fully focussed.

With Glinkuil on his left and Glorfindel on his right, they eased Elrond slowly up. Glorfindel shot an arm about Elrond’s waist at once as he felt his friend’s knees tremble and he began to sway dangerously. Taking his share of the weight, Glinkuil tried once more to make his charge see reason.

“Lord Elrond, you are too weak. Please allow Lord Glorfindel to carry you to the litter.”

His words had the opposite effect to that which he had hoped, although not necessarily the opposite to that which he had expected. Elrond clenched his jaw and attempted to take some of his weight off his helpers. “I will walk.”

He essayed a shaky step, taking some time to lock his knee to take his weight. His face was pale and a fine sheen of perspiration began to appear on his upper lip. Nevertheless, he took another step and Glorfindel moved to support him as he swayed once more.

“Elrond, my friend, stop being so stubborn. You cannot do this.” Without waiting for permission, he swung Elrond up into his arms, earning a squawk of protest from his victim.

“Put me down this instant.”

“No.” Glorfindel merely strode towards the exit, causing Glinkuil to scurry ahead in order to push aside the flap. “If you fall and tear those stitches there will be two of us on litters because I believe Glinkuil may just attempt to kill me in retribution.”

Outside, Glorfindel lowered Elrond onto the heavily padded litter and stood well out of range as Eithel arranged pillows and tucked blankets about his thunderous charge. Suffering the younger elf to arrange him, Elrond concentrated all of his spleen upon Glorfindel.

“Glorfindel, you had better take very good care of yourself from now on. Because if you are ever injured and put in my care I shall take great pleasure in reminding you of this event.”

“If I am ever that stubborn, My Lord, I should hope you will take every opportunity to do so.” Glorfindel bowed as deeply as any courtier and Elrond treated him to one of his most glacial glares. So intent was he upon the subject of his ire that he did not even notice when Glinkuil gave him a few drops to drink from a small flask. 

With a final flourish and a wide grin at the helpers who were to carry the litter, Glorfindel turned to accept the reins of his mount from one of the escort. With that target pointedly ignoring him, Elrond glanced about him to find another and took in his surroundings at last.

“Glinkuil! What is this? You said it was a litter. It looks more like something a dowager lady from Elendil’s court would travel in.” He flicked a finger at the canvas curtains at his side.

It was, indeed, quite an interesting contraption resembling more a palanquin than a litter, with its canopied roof and curtained sides supported on four green oak poles. Admittedly, both roof and curtains were obviously made from the canvas of some now ruined tent but it was quite an unusual sight.

By now relatively used to Elrond’s glacial mien Glinkuil knelt at the litter’s side. “We must travel far and may encounter inclement weather. In addition, it will provide you with some privacy when needed.”

Elrond accepted the explanation without comment, suddenly finding himself quite drowsy. He blinked in confusion, as the canopy above him seemed to roll away to his left and then back again. Realisation slowly broke through the growing haze in his mind. “What did you just give me?”

“A gentle sedative. You have had a busy afternoon.”

“Gentle?”

“Yes . . . gentle. You are exhausted thanks to your unnecessary activity. The tincture is merely helping your body do what it needs to recover its strength.” Glinkuil watched as Elrond blinked several more times and then his eyelids slid closed. The healer rose and motioned for the drapes to be lowered into place, a job that the bearers undertook with some alacrity.


	9. Chapter 9

The main body of returning warriors had set off some days earlier with Amroth of Lorien and most of the injured still with his party were much further along in their recovery than the half elven Elrond, so they made good time. Consequently, Elrond’s escort was a small contingent. It was, however, a contingent that held not only folk from Imladris, but from Gil-galad’s entourage. 

Possibly some of the best warriors in Middle earth were now accompanying the High King’s standard bearer and Glorfindel turned back to look proudly upon them. Even weary from months of battle and grieving the loss of their king they sat tall and calm upon their mounts. Until the final battle his had been a more or less solitary existence. He had come to know Elrond well during the years of their siege before the Black Gate but Glorfindel had never again wanted to accept the command of warriors. That was something he had relegated to his previous life and had no wish to repeat. Now he found himself the unspoken leader of this group of quiet warriors. Strangely, he discovered that this no longer made him uncomfortable as he gave the signal to move, setting a pace which made it easy for the litter bearer’s, in the centre of the group, to keep up. 

Elrond drowsed through the remainder of the afternoon and well on into evening. The surrounding blank canvas gave his mind nothing to focus upon and without stimulation Glinkuil’s tincture kept him always just upon the borders of consciousness. He was only distantly aware of the canvas being twitched aside occasionally as Glinkuil checked on him. Those carrying him did so with great care and there was no jolting, only a gentle sway from side to side that combined with Glinkuil’s draught to rock him to sleep.

When he finally began to drift upward through the fog in his mind it was to find that they had stopped to rest and eat. The canvas sides of his litter had been raised and he could see all about him the forms of resting warriors, hear light song and smell freshly prepared food. Still a little vague, Elrond suffered Glinkuil’s renewed attentions, accepting the warm light broth he was spooned without protest. He did note, however, that Glorfindel wisely stayed out of his way.

Once bandages had been checked and bodily functions cared for, Glinkuil left his charge alone. Elrond watched the camp settled down, voices growing lower and finally fading away, as all about him his defenders rolled themselves in cloaks and blankets to allow their bodies rest, weapons laid carefully within reach. In the trees above him, he could sense others keeping the first watch.

Comforted, he let his mind rest, drifting easily into dreamscape. How much time had passed in his dreams Elrond was not sure, but they became disjointed and dark. Whether from a resurgence of fever or simple exhaustion his mind was pushed into deep sorrow as it reviewed once more the litany of people Elrond had come to love but who were now lost. 

His mother’s face, filled with love as she bestowed his name while his father smiled proudly over her shoulder; Maglor gently taking his hand to shape fingers to the correct position for plucking harp strings; Gil-galad helping him onto his first horse and laughing uproariously when he slid off minutes later; Elros’ lined and empty face finally covered by a pall; Elendil’s vaguely surprised expression as he fell to Sauron’s blow; Gil-galad disappearing from view amid a chaos of bodies, while Elrond’s senses were overwhelmed by shouting and the acrid smell of orc blood. Each loss created another scar on his soul and scar tissue was hard and unyielding. He began to wonder whether it would be wiser not to let another touch him thus.

A sudden jolt pushed him out of reverie and into another chaos. All about him could be heard the ring of steel and the snap and whistle of bow and arrow. For a moment his sleep-mired mind could not focus on the blur of movement but it finally resolved itself into a battle between orc and elf. Glorfindel’s face suddenly bent near and Elrond looked down as a thud announced the arrival of a dagger by his hand. The warrior had only time to yell, “In case they break through,” before he plunged back into the melee. 

Elrond pushed himself upward, fighting his own battle with weakness and pain as he managed to sit and grasp the hilt of the proffered weapon. For once, the warrior part of his mind accepted that Glorfindel’s choice of weapon was wise. In his present predicament Elrond would have been incapable of wielding sword or bow. At least he did not feel totally defenceless. 

At his side, Glinkuil and his assistant crouched, Eithel letting loose rather inexpertly with a bow. For a moment the king’s standard-bearer was carried back to another time when his guardian and companion taught him to wield such a bow. Elrond touched the youngster lightly upon the shoulder and Eithel turned frightened eyes toward him.

“Calm yourself, little one. Breathe deep and evenly.” He slid his hand down to the centre of Eithel’s back, mind remembering when Gil-galad had done the same for him. “Straighten your back and feel the ground beneath you. Find the centre of your balance.”

At his gentle words, the apprentice healer settled and Elrond was gratified to feel the muscles beneath his palm firm rather than tense. Taking a deep breath and holding it, Eithel drew his bow once more, this time sparing time to control the trembling of his hands before letting loose. The arrow flew straight and fast, burying itself deeply in an orc throat even as Eithel let out his breath. The youngster grimaced, unhappy at causing injury to any creature, even orc. But he drew again.

The defenders did their job well, experience bringing with it efficiency that few could match, and no orcs managed to come within feet of the litter. Although initially outnumbered, soon the odds tipped towards the elves, with dead orcs becoming more plentiful than living ones.

Sudden agony tore a scream from Elrond as something solid slammed into his chest. When he managed to open his eyes it was to see Glinkuil applying pressure to a shoulder wound on one of his comrades, now strewn across Elrond’s lap. The strength of the arrow blow had thrown the defender into Elrond. 

The healer was having some trouble as the gap in the defensive ring now forced Eithel to step up his activity with bow and arrow. Glinkuil simply did not have enough hands to stem the flow of blood and deal with the arrow. Pushing aside his own pain Elrond dropped his dagger to ease his hands in to replace Glinkuil’s. The healer glanced at his other charge only briefly, frowning as he saw the crimson blossom of renewed bleeding on Elrond’s bandages caused by too much movement too soon, then he returned his attention to the more immediate problem of the fallen warrior, rummaging in his pack for the necessary items to tend him.

For several minutes both healers pushed all distraction aside as they tended their charge. Soon Glinkuil had withdrawn the arrow and the injured warrior lay bandaged and peaceful at the foot of Elrond’s litter. By the time Elrond looked up the battle was over and Eithel was moving among their comrades, cleaning and bandaging any injuries.

Elrond hissed as he felt hands press gently upon his stomach and chest and turned stormy eyes upon his “attacker”. Glinkuil was becoming immune to Elrond by now however and simply moved to push his charge back into his pillows. 

“I believe some of the stitches may have torn. I must examine you.” 

Glinkuil was stayed by Glorfindel’s voice. “Later. We must depart swiftly. If you think living orcs smell bad you should try them when they are dead.” 

Glinkuil produced a glare that would have done Elrond proud. “Just a little while. I must replace the stitches.”

Glorfindel had by now acquired several years of practice in bearing up under such glares, however. “The smell will draw predators quickly, including other orcs. We will be hard pressed to endure another such battle and the scouts tell of wolves, possibly even wargs, which will be drawn to the scent.” 

At his rapid hand signal the injured warrior was gently borne away by his companions. Others stepped in to lift Elrond’s litter and Glinkuil was forced to gather up his supplies as swiftly as he may and hurry along beside.

For his part, Elrond lay still, calming his body and pressing a forearm across his torso in an attempt to slow the renewed bleeding. The sides of his litter had not been lowered and he could see Ithil dipping towards the horizon. It seemed to him that his hope for recovery dipped too. Perhaps it was his fate to have fallen with Gil-galad on that battle plain and the past few days had only been stolen from Mandos.


	10. Chapter 10

Glorfindel did not keep them travelling for long, keenly aware that all were tired, and worried for his friend’s condition. The journey was difficult on rider and walker alike, the trail little more than a shadow that wound up from the tree filled valley into gorse covered scrubland. After only a couple of hours he called a halt in the lea of a large outcrop of rock. Warriors fell into routine without instruction, building low fires for warm drinks, tending the horses, placing the wounded in the centre of a protective cordon and setting the watch. Others rolled themselves in cloaks for a few more hours rest for their bodies at least. Perhaps some were even exhausted enough to sleep.

As soon as he realised that his presence was not required in such an experienced group, Glorfindel made for Elrond’s litter. What he found there was not encouraging.

Elrond lay still, his eyes closed. He placed a hand upon the high brow and found it too warm for his liking and turned to appraise Glinkuil. The healer did not raise his head from where he was cutting open Elrond’s clothing but he spoke before Glorfindel could open his mouth.

“Aye. The fever rises once more and he has lost more blood from an already dwindled supply. He lost consciousness some time ago. I hope you do not intend to travel any further this night.” 

His tone was accusing and Glorfindel could not find it in himself to push the guilt aside. Then both glanced up as the distant howl of wolves drifted from the valley below them. The bodies of the orcs had apparently been discovered.

Glinkuil was the first to draw his mind away from the haunting sound and return to the work in hand, accepting a scalpel from Eithel to cut away the blood soaked bandages. 

Glorfindel positioned himself at the opposite side of the pallet. “Can I help in any way?”

Eithel bathed Elrond’s stomach and chest, cleaning away as much of the blood as he could, to allow his master to assess the full extent of the damage. Elrond’s eyelids fluttered but did not open.

“Only by letting him rest for a few hours at least. Eithel and I can cope here.” The healer’s tone gave no quarter and it was clear that Glorfindel would find no salve for his conscience here.

“We will be safe here for the rest of the night. There is enough down in the valley to keep the wolves occupied. We will rest during the day but we must move on again at sunset.” Glorfindel nodded towards the crimson bandages. “Once they have finished their feasting below the wolves will scent other blood. Burn the dressings as soon as they are removed.”

Glinkuil slid his fingers gently across the wound, obviously relieved when it was blood and not pus that welled evenly along the damaged length. “The internal stitches are intact. The damaged artery has held, but he can ill afford to lose any more blood.” He turned to accept a small pair of tweezers from Eithel and began to remove the torn stitches with deft flicks of his hand.

Glorfindel watched in fascination as the master healer began to repair the damage. In places it was the skin that had torn, rather than the stitch, and it took much skill to place the new sutures precisely enough to draw the lips of the large wound back together. The faintest hint of grey was announcing the arrival of dawn by the time Glinkuil finished his delicate work and Glorfindel stifled a yawn. 

Through it all, Elrond had remained still, not by the faintest murmur acknowledging any discomfort. His friend would have found peace in that fact, were it not that he knew it only signalled how far from the conscious world Elrond was now sinking.

When rested they must make with all haste for the safety of the borders of Lorien. Glorfindel yawned again and looked up to find Glinkuil studying him.

“You should rest for a few hours, Lord Glorfindel. All look to you for leadership now and a leader must have a clear mind.”

The stubborn part of his mind wanted to deny his fatigue, but the warrior knew in his heart that the healer was right. “Wake me if I am needed here.”

Glinkuil nodded and then returned to helping Eithel dress Elrond’s wound. It was clear that the healer had no intentions of sleeping himself.

00000000

Glorfindel pushed the small party hard for the rest of the journey, changing the litter bearers regularly to maintain the fast pace and setting other injured warriors on horses with their uninjured comrades. 

Elrond did not regain consciousness, even when Glinkuil fed him broth and water, and his fever rose appreciably with each step, along with the return of the sweet smell of infection, despite their repeated attempts to cleanse the wound. 

When Glorfindel would have slowed Glinkuil only shook his head. “I keep cleansing the wound but his body is not strong enough to fight the corruption. We must find a place of proper rest if he is to survive now. No place in these wilds will suffice.”

Glorfindel found that the most disconcerting thing about the fever was Elrond’s stillness through it all. There was no delirium, no movement at all and the two healers took to turning him regularly to avoid any other complications caused by his prolonged inertia.

Elrond’s condition had a marked affect upon those travelling with him and the silent party was greatly relieved when Amroth’s people met them just outside the borders of Lorien, providing fresh bearers and guidance to safety and comfort.


	11. Chapter 11

“Please, Lady Galadriel. Anything that you can do. “Glorfindel had never begged in his life, in both of his lives, but he begged now. 

Elrond lay still and totally unresponsive to all attempts to rouse him. Bathed in perspiration, his long wound was showing signs of infection at many points, but he was so weak that Glinkuil saw no point in putting him through any more discomfort with a procedure that would be unlikely to result in the saving of his life. The healer left at the instruction of the Lady Galadriel, who arrived with one of her ladies. Eithel faded into the background.

It was their good fortune that Galadriel and Celeborn had decided to take refuge in Lorien to await the outcome of the battle. Now the lady stood still and composed at the foot of the bed. Those unfathomable silver eyes rested unwaveringly upon Elrond’s face and her head was tilted to one side, as though listening to some song Glorfindel could not hear.

“He has surrendered.” Galadriel rounded the bed drifting to stand by Elrond’s shoulder. “The death of his closest friend and this physical illness have combined to push him into despair.”

“How can that be? Only a few days ago he was determined to go on. He saw it as his duty to stay in Middle earth,” his friend insisted.

He found himself the subject of her serene gaze and decided he preferred Elrond’s glare. “What our minds say, and what our hearts feel are not always the same,” she replied enigmatically. 

Glorfindel felt some relief when the lady turned back to her charge, her regard growing softer as she looked into that pale face. “Does he ever talk of his family to you?” she asked calmly, as though they were chatting over a cup of tea.

“He has offered little of his history and I would not pry,” the warrior answered, shifting impatiently. “I have heard his story of course but not from his own lips.”

“Perhaps that is the problem,” Galadriel replied thoughtfully. “He has locked away too much pain that would have been better shared.”

“I know he has not had an easy life,” Glorfindel offered, all the time wishing that the lady would simply do something before it was too late.

“No.” Galadriel began to stroke Elrond’s fever damp hair with a mother’s care. “His father was at sea for much of his children’s formative years. Oh. There was much love when he was there, I have no doubt. But as a child, Elrond must have wondered what he had done to make his father stay away. And a part of his fea splintered away, remaining a hurt little child while the rest of him grew up.”

Glorfindel drew closer, seeing Elrond’s strong face in a different light. 

Galadriel continued. “And then there was his mother. You could argue that to leave as she did, with the last jewel, was the only course of action. But to a child it must have felt like a betrayal. Another tiny splinter chipped away.”

Her voice was so soft that even Glorfindel had to step closer to hear it, entwined in the stillness of the moment. “Then he and Elros fell into the hands of their enemies. That cannot have been pleasant, especially for one not yet come to his majority. What was shattered and locked away there, I wonder?”

“At least his discovery by Gil-galad was a blessing. He grew to be a brother,” Glorfindel offered hopefully. Some part of this tale he knew from conversations around many a campfire with the High King and his Standard Bearer.

“Indeed. And then his birth brother, his twin, took a different path, and Elrond had to watch him grow old and die. He was no longer a child, but the death of a sibling, particularly a twin, must have been painful indeed.” She sighed. “And now Gil-galad . . .”

Once more her eyes turned to Glorfindel and this time they were so filled with compassion that he could feel tears prickling his eyes in unbidden response. Galadriel smiled softly. “What his head tells him is, “Duty” and what his heart feels is, “Abandonment”, yet again. Little wonder then, that his heart falters and his broken body follows.”

Glorfindel sagged against the doorframe. “Then Glinkuil is right and there is nothing we can do.”

Galadriel’s voice held only mild censure. “I did not say that there was nothing to be done. I merely said that he has fallen into despair.”

The lady’s silver haired companion smiled gently at the elven warrior, her glance bringing comfort and understanding. The air about Glorfindel suddenly lost some of its weight and he straightened hopefully, watching as Galadriel touched her fingers to Elrond’s temple.


	12. Chapter 12

He was floating. It was a strange place. There was no pain and no sensation either. There was no sadness but neither was there joy. There were no screams of agony and yet, no peace. There was light, however. Above him he could see the surface, a ruddy glow of flickering fire. But here there was no fire. Here it was calm, like the space between one breath and the next. Elrond found a certain comfort in this place, as he watched the surface drift further and further away.

“Son of Earendil. You cannot remain here.”

Elrond’s heart faltered at the sound of that voice. Rich in wisdom and steeped in sadness, her voice caused ripples in the stillness of his world. After the silence of his mind her voice was too loud and he cringed away from it. But in this place there was nowhere to hide.

Son of Earendil? Yes. He remembered a father. Remembered standing upon the beach with his brother and watching a sail sink below the distant horizon. His father had only ever been a shadowy and intermittent presence in Elrond’s life. What was a father to him?

And his mother? What of her? A sad and lonely lady whose hugs were filled with love and loss. And then even she had abandoned him in order to protect a jewel. A jewel . . . 

Maglor had at least spoken with him, had taught him to sing and play the harp. But Maglor had walked away too, leaving Elrond and his brother to die in the forest. Then had come Gil-galad, bringing security and friendship. It had been Gil-galad’s presence that had allowed Elrond to accept the final desertion, that of his brother, Elros. But, even now, Elrond could not fully understand his brother’s choice of mortality, the choice allowed all peredhil or half-elves.

“Elrond. Come back to the light.”

He curled in upon himself, trying to turn from the ruddy glow of the fiery surface above. His own voice sounded dull and empty in comparison to the life crowded into her command.

“Leave me be. The light hurts.”

A soft chuckle teased him. “Light is life and life can hurt. But that is no reason to push it away. Light can illuminate much that is beautiful.”

It became clear that she did not intend to leave so Elrond tried to push her away again. “And light can show much that is ugly,” he muttered.

“And such has been your experience, I know. A father that seemed to ignore you, a mother that abandoned you, held captive by your enemies, a twin who turned from you to take mortality and death. And now your closest friend killed for what you perceive to be no reason.”

Intellect had to applaud her precise catalogue. Elrond waited for her next words, this woman who seemed to be able to read his very soul.

“I know how painful life can be, child. I too have seen much that is ugly. But I have also seen great joy.”

A flash of light, pure and white as moonlight on new snow . . . and . . . 

The terrible sound of ice grinding upon ice and a cold so intense that his hands felt as though they were on fire. The burned-out hulks of a fleet of ships on an empty shore. Great sadness at the memory of glittering beaches, never to be walked again. Deep love mirrored in her husband’s steel-grey eyes. The intense joy of looking down into the face of a tiny babe with a down of silver hair and huge blue eyes. A tall and slender elf maiden, dancing in a grove of silver trees.

Elrond’s heart tripped and moved on at a faster pace at this last for here was the maiden of his childhood vision. He turned to look up, surprised to see the ruddy glow of the surface closer now.

“Come back to the light Elrond of Rivendell. Life awaits you. Your song is not yet ended and there are wondrous harmonies yet to be woven in and from it.”

A pale and slender hand reached down through the flames and with trembling and hesitant fingers he grasped it. Her hand wrapped about his firmly and a pale light formed from their merged fingers, white shot through with blue. It sped down his arm and blazed across his torso, settling in a searing line from shoulder to hip. A slight tug . . . and Elrond lay gasping and thrashing in fire laced water.

“Quickly, Eithel. I have done my part and now you must do yours.”

Cool hands forced Elrond’s body to stillness and a cup was pressed to his lips. Liquid trickled into his mouth and he swallowed, reflexively at first and then greedily. It was sweet and cool and all that he craved. 

The world began to recede once more, but this time he was cocooned in dark comfort. He knew instinctively that this was a place of safety and surrendered to it gladly, his last impression one of soft, cool and strangely familiar hands smoothing the hair from his brow.

00000

Glorfindel let out his breath dizzily. 

It had been a strange and awe-filled time that seemed to stretch on forever but had probably only lasted for moments. Glorfindel had heard no words but, watching the faces of both Galadriel and Elrond, he suspected that some converse had taking place. For the first time in many hours Elrond stirred beneath her touch, almost as though he wished to escape it.

Slowly the tense features smoothed and Galadriel slipped her fingers about his, where they lay limp upon the coverlet. To Glorfindel’s surprise Elrond’s own fingers curled loosely about hers. Was it his imagination or had he seen a faint glow about their joined hands?

Then it seemed to the warrior that time sped up, for everything began to happen at once. Eithel pushed past him, carrying a cup of some clear liquid. Elrond took a deep choking breath and cried out in pain. Galadriel’s lady lifted Elrond’s head while the young healer shakily fed him the contents of the cup and, with a small sigh; their charge sank back into a deep sleep.

Time slowed to its accustomed pace and Glorfindel approached the now crowded bedside. He glanced from face to face, hoping for explanation and finally had to resort to asking. 

“Have you healed him?”

Galadriel’s eyes fixed him and Glorfindel sensed amusement in them. He was relieved when those silver eyes focussed instead upon the slender maiden who was now helping Eithel bathe their charge.

“I only showed him there was much still to live for. The choice to take up that life again was his. You could say that he healed himself.”

Glorfindel wondered whether the mortal saying, “Never go to the elves for council for they will tell you both yes and no,” had been coined by someone who had encountered the lady Galadriel.

The tall lady floated past him in a glamour of silk and power and Glorfindel could only bow at her passing.


	13. Chapter 13

For six more days Elrond slept, but this time was different. At the end of three days, as Glorfindel watched from his now accustomed seat in the window, Glinkuil beckoned him to the bedside with a smile.

“There is much healing here, more so even than is normal in elven kind. I do not know what quality lies in the water the lady bade Eithel fetch but it seems to have been more powerful than any potions I can blend.” He took up a small knife once more and began to cut the last of the stitches free.

00000000

The sound of singing was his first awareness; two voices woven in perfect harmony within his mind, rich contralto and surprisingly warm soprano. For some time Elrond lay still, afraid to do anything that may cause the lovely dream to fade and return him to the world of heat and pain.

Cool fingers touched his chin, turning his head to allow the application of a damp, scented cloth to his cheek. Elrond inhaled more deeply of the cleansing perfume of athelas and, to his dismay, the voices stopped.

“He is waking, Nanneth” came the soprano. 

The hand touching his face withdrew and Elrond felt its loss keenly, as though those cool and soft fingers had been caressing his fea; the loss of their touch so painful that he moaned. There was movement, the soft whisper of fine silk, and he sensed someone standing over him. The heat and pain had not returned and he wondered if this was what it was like to awaken in Mandos’ Halls. With a small sigh, he forced open heavy eyelids, deciding that he had better rise to his fate.

The brightness made him blink, and for several moments he saw all through a mist of defensive tears. Slowly, the world resolved and he was surprised to find himself looking up into the serene face of Galadriel. She smiled, inclining her silver-gold  
head, and Elrond revised his decision about his present location. This was definitely not the Halls of Mandos.

“On behalf of Lord Amroth, welcome to Lorien, Elrond, Son of Earendil. You have led your healers in a merry dance but you are recovering well now. You need only time and care.”

He glanced down at his body, uncovered to the waist to allow his carers to bathe him. He was surprised to find, not bandages but the dark purple line of a healing wound running across his flesh, edged with the tiny dots that marked the site of removed sutures. There was no trace of infection save, perhaps for a fading pink tinge along parts of the scar’s length.

A strong hand touched his knee and Elrond glanced across to find his friend beaming down at him. “How are you feeling?”

Elrond tried to reply, with a throat that was glued shut and a tongue three sizes too big for his mouth. The result was a dry, hacking cough that sent his carers into a flurry of activity as still tender flesh protested such deep breaths.

By the time he had recovered enough to be aware of his surroundings once more he was propped against soft pillows and the cool rim of a cup was pressing against his lips. Swallowing, Elrond was surprised when there was no bitter tasting herbal brew, only cool water, stirred with honey and the slightest hint of salt. When the cup had been emptied he tried his voice again.

With a wry smile, he squeezed his friend’s hand, where it grasped his. “Better, I think. Thank you, Fin.”

“My thanks to you, Galadriel and . . .” He turned to look at her assistant for the first time and his heart faltered. He had seen this face before, in dreams since his earliest childhood.

Eyes the palest blue of spring thawing ice met his, set in a delicately featured face and framed with hair that shimmered like starlight on falling water. She smiled and the warmth of it flooded his fea.

Galadriel’s amused voice seemed to come from a long way away. “This is my daughter, Celebrian.” The very name seemed to enfold his heart. “She was somewhat younger when last you met in Imladris.” 

Glorfindel watched with some surprise as his friend’s eyes softened into an expression he had never seen there before. It took him some moments to recognise it and he could not help a foolish grin when he did. It took only the lightest of touches at his elbow for Galadriel to suggest that their presence was no longer required and he let her lead him from the room with not a murmur of protest.

As Galadriel reached behind him to close the door Glorfindel caught a glimpse of Celebrian lifting a pot of salve. Elrond’s gaze followed her every move, although it was clear his eyes were caught by her face rather than by her hands. Nor was it the steady gaze of a healer. 

Glorfindel’s grin widened. He had no doubt that Celebrian would bring healing to more than Elrond’s flesh and his heart sang both relief and joy at the thought.

 

END

 

* Glinkuil – literally – Singlife (Sindarin)  
* Eithel – spring (of water)


End file.
